


Tomarcus drabbles

by thenbringmeback (neganstonguething)



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neganstonguething/pseuds/thenbringmeback
Summary: Just the place where I'm going to put all my Tomarcus drabbles. I've got ideas for too many of them to count, and I don't want to spam the ship with little 500 word pieces all on their own. It's just my attempt to keep things clean around here.  Depending on exactly what drabbles end up written, the warnings and tags will likely change.





	1. For Once

Marcus glares at his reflection in the mirror. He looks damned miserable—a mess of sunken eyes and a bright red nose from the abuse hotel room toilet tissue has induced upon it. He’s cold and shivering and hot all at the same time, and he’s got a feeling this isn’t just your run-of-the-mill common cold.

Not that it matters. He and illness are _not_ friends, as far as that one goes. He can handle having the living shit bludgeoned out of him by a few choice possessed people, and he’s fine with scrapping with the occasional jackass who doesn’t understand just what the line of work he specializes in means. But you give him an upper respiratory infection, and the end result is something not unlike a rain-drenched alley cat with a knot in his tail.

“Are you trying to stare the cold away?”

Marcus glances past himself in the mirror, where he now sees Tomas in the doorway, his hands neatly tucked into his pockets, smiling serenely. The right corner of his lips quirks up just a little in amusement.

“Piss off,” Marcus retorts, before he wrenches the faucet on and washes his face. As he dries off with a hand towel, he brushes past his partner. “It’s not a cold.”

“That’s not what you were saying yesterday,” Tomas points out, following Marcus into the hotel’s main room. Marcus pays him little mind as he shifts onto the hard mattress and buries his face in the pillow. “It was you insisting we keep going. “ _Gotta stay on the road, Tomas. It’s just a cold, I’ve had worse,_ ” or something like that.”

Tomas does a surprisingly good impression of Marcus. One that makes his stomach twist up and wrenches a cough out of him. He cranes his head, face turning out of the pillow, and glares icily across the room at his partner.

“You think you’re funny.”

“I _know_ I’m funny,” Tomas replies. Afterward, he makes the few steps it takes to get to the desk and plucks a yellow plastic sack off of the surface. “And smart.” In seconds, he’s seated on the edge of the bed, holding the bag out to him. “Here.”

Marcus observes the object for a moment as if it might start dancing before his eyes, but accepts it soon enough. The contents are a vast array of medicines—everything from cough drops to tissues (with _lotion_ , bless Tomas and his big fucking heart) to cold and flu medication. There’s a toothbrush and a fresh tube of toothpaste, as well. When Marcus plucks the latter two out of the bag, Tomas shrugs.

“I, uh,” Tomas starts to explain, “didn’t know for sure how particular you were about this kind of thing. Some people change their toothbrushes out after getting sick.”

Marcus hasn’t always had the money for that. He smiles despite this, and turns to his side, propping his head up on his elbow. “You like taking care of me for once.”

Tomas just smiles. “For once.”

“You heard me,” Marcus retorts around a laugh. It devolves into a series of coughs, though, and soon enough, he’s back to scowling into his pillow while Tomas gets to work opening the box of cold and flu medicine.


	2. The one time Tomas is extreme and Marcus isn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by javiernegangarcia on tumblr, who headcanons that Tomas likes painfully hot showers. I really liked this, since Marcus is usually the one to do crazy shit like this, so I requested his permission to write this. This little 600 word thing is the result!

The first time Marcus attempts to climb into the shower with Tomas is the last one. Tomas figures this out quickly. Around the slew of curses and rapidly-spoken English that Tomas (or anyone at all, he figures) can’t quite keep up with, he knows Marcus regrets having tried to be even remotely spontaneous. Sure, Marcus can break into someone’s house or pop up at random, and his almost suave nature and word choice have gained him entry into more than his fair share of places, but he doesn’t stand a chance against the water temperature that Tomas happens to consider perfect for a relaxing shower.

At present, Marcus is backed up against the side of the shower opposite the spray, blue eyes looking even brighter than usual in contrast to his red skin. He looks like a cartoon of a wet cat, his short hair mussed, mouth agape, arms splayed out against the tile shower wall. His eyes are bulging out of his skull, and while Tomas stands comfortably beneath the shower spray, Marcus doesn’t look like he can believe it.

“Prefacing this with a very important question:” Marcus starts, raising a hand with a single finger extended. He’s so dramatic, still plastered up against the wall and panting like Tomas just made him run the mile. “How in the _fuck_ do you still have skin?”

Marcus had endured all of two seconds underneath the shower head. Tomas had been facing the spray, enjoying the heat as it peppered his forehead and washed over his eyes and cheeks and chin, when Marcus had tried to quietly surprise Tomas with his presence. The man’s arms had just about been around Tomas’ waist when he’d apparently realized that the water was too hot for his tastes and jumped away.

Now, he just looks comical. How he’s managed to back himself up so abruptly without slipping and landing hard on his ass is beyond comprehension.

Tomas laughs.

“You’re being dramatic,” he tells Marcus, who’s still gawking at him in disbelief. “It’s not that bad.”

“…Have you seen my skin, Tomas?” Marcus retorts, though the shock has ebbed away from his tone. He nods to the bright red flesh pressed up against the age-grayed tile behind him. “You too. You’re positively glowing right now.”

Tomas doesn’t doubt it. This isn’t his first hot shower. The trend started with the successful exorcism on the demon inside Angela Rance and hasn’t stopped ever since Tomas embarked on his apprenticeship under Marcus. The burn makes him feel cleaner. Makes him feel less cruel. It almost feels as if it’s washing away everything he had to do that day. Apparently, Marcus disagrees.

Which is surprising to Tomas, considering it seems like Marcus Keane’s existence is a whole amalgamation of different extremes. But he’s been proven wrong about worse things. At the very least, this one is incredibly amusing.

“I like the heat,” Tomas answers simply as he rinses the last dregs of soap from his thick hair.

“If you say it makes you feel cleaner,” Marcus answers, “I’m going to slug you.”

Tomas just shrugs. Soon enough, he’s hopped out of the shower, leaving Marcus by himself in it. The water was already starting to cool while Tomas was under it, so he imagines it’s getting closer to comfortable now. Either that, or it’s ebbing dangerously toward too cold. When Marcus exhales a shuddering breath not five minutes later, Tomas figures he has his answer.

“You doing alright?” He asks.

“I’m inverted right now,” Marcus replies.

Tomas laughs again.


	3. Oats and Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for drabble prompts on tumblr, and an anon delivered!
> 
> "This is a classic but it never gets old: Tomas and Marcus both reaching for the last snack at the same time, which results in witty banter and playful shoves until Tomas gets the upper hand and runs away but Marcus gets him to the ground and so the tension reaches its peak and then Marcus kisses Tomas out of the blue and Tomas kisses back but then Marcus pulls away, smirks and dashes out with the snack in his hand. Pretty basic but adorable, ain't it?"
> 
> It ends differently than the anon requested, but you know how muses go~

It starts with a chaste brush of fingers. With Tomas’ hand just barely reaching the last granola bar on the hotel’s worn-out coffee table, he’s got his heart set on the honey-and-oat-ridden goodness.

Apparently, so does Marcus. He’s just missed claiming the snack for himself, so instead of plastic, his fingers graze flesh. He retracts his hand on impulse and sets his focus on Tomas.

Their eyes meet, gazes held in waiting above all else. But soon enough, Tomas’ expression dulls and he shoots Marcus a bland stare.

“You always take the last one,” he deadpans.

Marcus shrugs. “You leave it sitting there for days. It’s a waste.”

“You take two at once sometimes,” Tomas argues. “I think I’m allowed the last granola bar at my own discretion from time to time.”

Marcus scoffs. “I only take two after it’s been a hard day.”

“Your hard days are hard on me, too,” Tomas snaps. Without thinking, he extends his free hand and gives Marcus’ shoulder a shove.

“I’m the mentor.” Marcus shoves back.

“I’m a hands-on apprentice,” Tomas says. “Don’t act like you do all the work.” He then gets up to walk away, granola bar in hand, to save it from Marcus and his hungry fingers.

It doesn’t work. A few feet of walking, and Tomas is suddenly _running_ , because the petty little asshole Marcus is, he chases Tomas down. It takes all of four seconds for Marcus to find his way right behind Tomas, and then another two for him to have tackled his partner down to the ground onto his belly. The granola bar is sent flying out of Tomas’ grip, and it skids across the hotel carpet until it collides with a wall next to the bathroom.

Marcus is just one propped-up arm shy of being completely on top of Tomas. He’s got one leg curled around Tomas’ knee in a desperate attempt to keep him pried to the ground. Despite that, Tomas attempts to struggle his way to freedom.

“You’ve likely got it all broken into pieces now,” Marcus grumbles breathily as he keeps Tomas pinned to the carpet. It’s a struggle, but Tomas is helpless in his current position and Marcus is strong.

Tomas attempts to turn his head to look back at Marcus, but he can only barely see him out of the corner of his eye. “You shouldn’t buy the crunchy ones, then.”

He hears the smirk in Marcus’ voice as the man leans down and growls into his ear. “I happen to like the crunchy ones better.”

Tomas shudders. Marcus has effectively closed the distance between them altogether. He’s pressed against everything from Tomas’ back to his ass to his thighs, and Tomas isn’t stupid enough to pretend that it isn’t doing anything to his body right now. In fact, it’s doing too much. Soon, the friction of struggling against this carpet is going to make Tomas’ physical response a little more visible. As if the flushing on his face isn’t telling enough.

And for a split second, Tomas thinks Marcus _knows_ he’s doing it, too. There’s a shift in the hips that feels so much like _grinding_ that Tomas swears he feels the start of an erection rutting up along his ass and he almost moans.

But then, he realizes the shift is just Marcus untangling himself from his leg and making an attempt to climb over him in pursuit of his precious granola bar, because _clearly_ , that is what is important here.

In doing so, Marcus has to relinquish pinning Tomas to the ground, though. So with a pair of strong arms himself, Tomas hefts himself up and throws an elbow back, catching Marcus hard in the stomach, just in time to stop him from advancing any further.

They’re silent for a few moments, while they heatedly wrestle for the upper hand. Tomas tries to lurch forward and get himself out from underneath Marcus, but a rough grip on the back of his shirt yanks him right down onto his stomach again. Marcus’ fingers shift to Tomas’ shoulder, and the next thing he knows, he’s on his back, glaring up into those hauntingly blue eyes, with his teeth bared.

“It’s just a granola bar,” Marcus teases as he straddles Tomas’ hips and wrestles with his partner’s arms.

“It is,” Tomas spits back, writhing uselessly in an attempt to break free. He doesn’t get far, though. In seconds, his hands are over his head and Marcus is sneering down at him from maybe a foot or so above. “But I got to it first. You’re just a sore loser.”

“Sore loser?” Marcus laughs, though it sounds more like the panting he’s currently doing. Tomas is proud to say he at least put up a good fight. Where Marcus gets that incredible strength is beyond him. Tomas settles on blaming his own weakness on the inability to work out most times during their travels together. “Doesn’t look like I’m losing to me, Tomas.”

“But what now?” Tomas finds himself smirking at the words. “You’re going to have to let me go to get your prize…” And it’s true. Like he’d proven not a minute ago, the minute Marcus gets up, he has to let Tomas go. That means Tomas has a chance to intervene, and eventually, he’s going to get his hands on his granola bar again.

“Is that a challenge?” Marcus lilts, cocking his head.

“It is what it is,” Tomas answers simply.

And then Marcus falls silent. Tomas isn’t sure exactly what has compelled him to do so, but he sees the way those blue eyes are suddenly everywhere and at the same time nowhere in particular. Just as soon as he’s sure Marcus is looking into his eyes, the gaze flits away to his neck or his chest, and even above his head to where his wrists are pinned.

What he’s not ready for is for Marcus to suddenly dip his head in and capture Tomas’ lips in a kiss. And what he’s even less ready for is the fact that he’s responding in earnest. Their lips part in unison, and then Marcus tilts his head and their mouths fall together again. Tomas inhales sharply, and Marcus breaks off the kiss, panting. He buries his face in the crook of Tomas’ neck.

And then he makes his mistake. He releases Tomas’ hands and slides his own down to cup the side of his partner’s face, to trail his fingers through that dark hair. Tomas savors it for a moment, because he really _does_ enjoy the feeling. He tilts his head and presses a kiss to Marcus’ temple.

And then he shoves him up and away. His interest and arousal be damned, he’s still got one goal in mind. With a playful smirk, he’s finally successful in prying himself away from Marcus’ hold, and once he’s done so, he vaults himself over to the bathroom door and snatches the granola bar.

The entire time Marcus sulks and scribbles away in his Bible, Tomas enjoys his victory.

And maybe, just maybe, he offers to share.

“The crunchy ones are hard to eat,” Tomas observes aloud once they’re seated on opposite ends of the hotel table once more. “That’s why it takes me so long to do so.”

“I know,” Marcus responds, smiling around a mouthful of granola. “that’s why I choose them.”

“We’re getting the chewy ones next time,” Tomas tries. “And we’re getting chocolate chip.”

Marcus doesn’t respond. He just goes back to drawing. Tomas allows himself a moment to get lost in the crinkling in Marcus’ brow as he concentrates.


	4. The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request from bensponcho on Tumblr: Little kid Tomas meeting a younger but still adult Marcus while Marcus is in Mexico. Marcus is enveloped by a little over-friendly bundle of long black hair and bright brown eyes for no reason. Marcus, realizing how much he adores kids at this point, hugs back and sends him off back to his grandmother. Years later, when Tomas comes to St. Aquinas, Marcus starts crying when Tomas whispers "it is you" like they've been lost to each other forever
> 
> Non-romantic, but easily one of my favorite prompts so far. Thanks!!

Around the tune billowing from the cassette player and the smell of paper and pencil in the small St. Aquinas bedroom, Marcus’ senses are plenty distracted. He’s so focused on the _scritch scritch_  of each line down the tiny grooves of his canvas that he doesn’t realize someone’s there until their voice joins the words on the tape player, loud and alarming by comparison to the sweet, cloudlike way the song flutters from the speakers.

“Father Marcus?”

Just as abruptly as the voice, Marcus drops one hand from his work, now sharpening his pencil, and stops the cassette player. He’s not yet sure he wants to confront the voice, so he merely turns his head to the side, still facing away, to acknowledge the presence. 

“What do you want?”

The voice responds almost eagerly, and most certainly with a hefty weight of nervousness. “My name is Father Tomas Ortega, from St. Anthony’s, in Chicago.”

Tomas Ortega.

“ _¡Soy Tomás Ortega! ¡De mayor quiero ser como tú!” A boy with warm eyes that immediately remind Marcus of how the first sip of hot chocolate on a cold morning feels approaches and instantly throws little arms around his waist. The boy who called himself Tomas looks up from Marcus’ waist and just smiles. He’s missing two teeth, and the image only adds more warmth to the picture._

Marcus turns and locks his gaze onto his visitor. The first thing he notices is that pair of warm eyes. The second is the collar. The third is the way the man is staring back. As if his entire world has just sewn itself back together in meeting eyes with Marcus.

“It really _is_  you,” Tomas says, all but confirming Marcus’ words.

_Marcus’ first thought in hearing the boy’s words is how he hopes not. He knows among the Church that he has quite the reputation, but he wouldn’t wish the life of an exorcist on anyone. There’s no glory. Just purpose. And suffering. Despite that, Tomas smiles up at him, and when his grandmother later explains to Marcus that he’s going to be a priest in the future, Marcus understands._

‘ _Let the boy dream’, he tells himself._

_He smiles and drops to his knees, giving Tomas a big hug. A laugh falls from his lips as he ruffles the boy’s hair. “¡Así me gusta! Pero de momento, vete con tu abuela.”_

_He bids the boy good luck and allows himself a moment for his heart to swell when he sees how starstruck the boy looks._

Marcus doesn’t realize he’s spaced out until his brain draws him back to the present just in time for Tomas to ask him about his knowledge of demonic possession.

His stomach sinks so abruptly he feels the need to collapse to the ground with it. 

What has this man gotten himself into?

“Doesn’t exist,” Marcus tries, distracting himself from the rapidly-ascending wave of emotion in his throat by way of turning and moving toward his canvas. A special amount of attention is paid to a tree in the foreground of the image while Marcus attempts to compose himself. “Enjoy your drive home.”

“You’re an exorcist, right?” Tomas tries, and Marcus turns his gaze back across the room toward him. Tomas has grown so much. He looks like he still has so much learning to do, though.

“How do you figure?”

“Does it matter?” Tomas’ determination rests right on the forefront of his features, so much like the delight that he’d seen in the young boy back in Mexico.

“Yeah it does, Tomas.” Marcus sighs, scratches his head, ignores the fact that he’s just rubbed graphite all over his skin the process. He draws his focus back to his work. “You didn’t come here for advice, Father Tomas from St. Anthony’s in Chicago. You came for help.” He doesn’t have to look back to see the acknowledgement from the room’s other occupant. “Who is it?”

“Umm…A girl, in my parish. Maybe.” 

Marcus scrapes a particularly defined line along the edge of that very same tree. His diaphragm feels as if it’s in knots. “So why maybe come to me?”

There’s a long pause. Marcus still can’t bring himself to glance across the room.

“You thought I’d forget about you,” Tomas observes aloud. “When I was a child, I didn’t know you were an exorcist. But you were good to my family. I wanted to be a good priest like you. And then, I have a dream…dreams. And you’re in them.”

It all spirals downhill from there. From Marcus being so wrought with disbelief and grief that he pries proof of the truth in Tomas’ story right from his lips all the way to the young priest being told to leave while Marcus works to put himself back together. When Tomas exits the room, it’s with the disappointment that Marcus isn’t going to help him, and a prayer spoken after calling out Marcus’ fears.

Marcus curses at the cross sketched onto the wall near his workstation, and then he allows himself to burst into tears. 

When he’d met Tomas, the boy had probably been a little younger than Gabriel at his time of death. And now, Tomas is contemplating dabbling in exorcism. The very thing Marcus had been afraid of when he’d met the boy all those years ago. It isn’t just the danger of Tomas losing his life that hangs heavy over Marcus’ thoughts. It’s the fact that a very happy child is about to become a very tired, unhappy adult who had no idea just what signed himself up for. 

Exorcism isn’t just prayers and holy water. 

If Tomas goes through with whatever he’s thinking about doing, he’s signing himself up for a long, hard life. And as Marcus had discovered eighteen months ago, the ending to an exorcism isn’t always going to be a good one.


	5. His Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a ramble than anything, prompted by a message I got on Tumblr from bensponcho: Tomarcus Lyrics prompt: There's no yellow bricks to follow back and run from that disaster / Familiar sins come crashing in and sever forever, and after / my old friend, its time i leave you here, for one and for all, in frozen alabaster (No Place Like Home- Marianas Trench)

The sun shines brighter in his presence. The dark feels less confining and uncomfortable. Weakness feels more like strength. The earth rattles and quivers in his wake. Even the night sky seems to smile when it acknowledges him.

And when he’s gone, everything is colder. Exorcisms are harder. The screams of the afflicted louder. The inky blackness in the eyes of a possessed person are blacker.

But Tomas’ heart thrums just as rapidly when he’s gone as when he’s here. It’s because as he works–as the prayers spill from his lips like holy water–he knows he isn’t alone. He’s got God by his side, and even though he’s off somewhere looking for a sign, Tomas knows he’s also got Marcus Keane.

At some point, he had found strength in Marcus’ absence. Not the fact that the man was gone, of course. It had just been that one night, Tomas had awakened to the realization that Marcus had put faith into his capabilities as an exorcist. That he wouldn’t have left if he hadn’t thought on some level that Tomas knew what he was doing.

So, even though the sun feels a little dimmer without Marcus around, and even though the darkness makes Tomas feel as if he’s suffocating, and even though he feels like he can’t do it sometimes and that the night sky is harshly judging him, Tomas works hard. He practices. He prays. He hopes and he challenges and when the demons he’s fighting stand nose to nose with him, he fights back with his shoulders held high.

And he notices he’s getting stronger.

He’s never one hundred percent liked the way Marcus went about bringing a demon out, but the first time he does it for himself, his heart races. He’s getting somewhere. He can feel Mouse smiling at him from somewhere behind him, and it’s because she knows.

The first time he performs an exorcism by himself successfully, he feels powerful. He feels like he’s got God and Mouse and Marcus all at his six, and the strength of his words and actions in his hands. His chest puffs out and he allows himself to be proud.

It’s hard. But he’s getting better every day. And even though Tomas has no idea where Marcus is, he feels like he’s doing right by his former partner.

He’s tired and his shoulders feel heavy even with Mouse bearing some of the weight. He’s weak, but his strengths are rising and growing from that weakness. When he puts himself on the spot and allows all Marcus’ and Mouse’s teachings to come forward, he knows he’s getting somewhere. Like prayers all their own, Tomas channels them and he swears he feels his opponents cowering with fear in response.

He’s stronger, and if Marcus knew this, maybe he’d give Tomas that same proud smile he’d given him all those months ago after he’d taken Angela’s demon down.

He feels accomplished. Lonely and afraid, but accomplished. He sleeps most nights, and when he puts his head on the pillow, it’s with the hope that maybe one day he’ll wake to Marcus raiding his hotel room and eating the last remaining apple from the fruit basket Tomas and Mouse bought at the grocery store.

Maybe he’ll have a few things he can teach Marcus, himself.


End file.
